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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28097289">Severed Crossed Fingers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerapostate/pseuds/queerapostate'>queerapostate</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Multi, POV Sebastian Moran, POV Second Person, Period Typical Attitudes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:56:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,099</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28097289</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerapostate/pseuds/queerapostate</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This is your favorite hustle - meeting a cocky stranger in a dingy bar and bragging about the sharpshooter skills of London’s ‘Sebastian Moran’. You didn't come to America in search of riches, you didn't learn how to ride a fucking horse just to please your Mom and do pretty horse shows for the rest of your life. </p>
<p>Western AU.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Severed Crossed Fingers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You realize, with much chagrin, that you need to purchase a horse -- the whole commuting on the western front doesn’t work. Though you’ve been offered a ride once or twice as a hitch-hiker from a fancy carriage, you are quick to realize that you are already fucking sick of Southern hospitality and no amount of polite conversation is worth the convenience of free travel. </p><p>*</p><p>“I bet yah twenty fuckin’ dollars yah can’t make that shot,” this posh prick has been up your ass all night but you aren’t bothered by it because this is your favorite hustle. Meeting a cocky stranger in a bar and bragging about the sharpshooter skills of London’s ‘Sebastian Moran’. They become affronted because surely if he was that great they would have heard of him. Your grey eyes are bright with the thrill of the challenge because he ate the bait from your palm and you’re now about to eat him alive and swallow him whole. You spit out the cherry stem that you’ve been toying with between your teeth after the last round of drinks. Boy, are you starting to love American Exceptionalism. He has no idea what he’s getting himself into. </p><p>“You think I came to Atlanta all the way from London,” you start and you lean forward from your dark barstool, your sharp smile growing on your face as you look over the smaller man. “Just to brag about being a sharpshooter,” He’s too big for his britches, all talk and no game. “While I’m actually shit?” He’s dark eyed and dark haired, but he’s clearly from the north. You’re learning a lot about America quickly enough, because everyone you’ve met so far just can’t shut up about their home states.</p><p>“Yeah. Twenty dollars.” </p><p>Mr. Boston Massachusetts does not back down in the face of clear danger.</p><p>“Make it twenty five,” you say smoothly, voice low in your throat. You’ve always been a gambling man. </p><p>You’ve had a few whiskeys, and so has he, and surely emboldened by liquid courage he slaps money on the table - enough to cover his last beer.</p><p>“You’re on.” </p><p>*</p><p>He leads you outside, down the dirt streets that are lit by flickering gas lamps outside buildings. You draw the rifle over your shoulder from its sling and prepare to make easy money. </p><p>The target he presents as such: </p><p>A beer bottle nicked from the bar tossed into the air from thirty paces away. </p><p>Before he can even say ‘Alright, show me what you’ve got,’ there’s a sharp crack through the air over Boston’s head as the glass bottle shatters and he yelps, because it was too close for comfort. You can already see the shocked look on his face as he regards you with some kind of wonder, and there’s heat in his dark brown eyes. </p><p>“Do it again, double or nothing,” he insists, and perhaps it was the alcohol that loosened his tongue and made him lose his sense though you doubt he had much sense to begin with. </p><p>“I don’t want your money,” you say, rolling your eyes. You could use it, surely, because you came to America because there was talk of gold and riches, but there’s another angle at play here. </p><p>“C’mon, there’s no way in hell you can do it again,” he insists, a needy whine escaping his soft lips. </p><p>And you pause, looking casual, like you’ve practiced a million times before. “Well, I guess I need a horse,” you bait, and of course he takes it. </p><p>*</p><p>You make the shot.</p><p>You take his hat too for good measure, leaning nearly too close over the short boy and swiping it from his head as he curses you, and as he moves away you notice the faint smell of lavender in the air. </p><p>It’s a proper tan cowboy hat, you figure as you look it over, with a good long brim for sunny days of the high desert you are about to venture into, as you and your new horse ride west. The hat looks like it hasn’t seen a lick of dirt in its life, which you know you will change. </p><p>You think about taking him out back behind the saloon and fucking him because he was cute in an obnoxious kinda way, but he got a little pissed off with the whole losing thing and disappeared once you were done admiring the hat. </p><p>*</p><p>You taste dust on your tongue. You’ve tasted dust - thick and papery, on your tongue for three months since you left the coast. </p><p>The farmers in the last town told you not to go North, their hands calloused and rough - trouble was brewing in the north, and while you tend to seek out trouble, you’ve never been a fan of cold. You much preferred the slick heat of the south, where your thin white shirt stuck to your tanned and weathered skin, nearly translucent with sweat.  </p><p>Three months in America.</p><p>You shoved enough money in the lining of your jacket when you traveled across the country, bartered and stolen from your family before they cast you aside because of what you were doing to the family’s name.</p><p>Why America?</p><p>You certainly aren’t after gold, and you aren’t after wealth and riches - your whole life has been surrounded by dull wealth and even duller idiots that were rich. </p><p>No, you want to be your own man. You wanted to be free, and get rid of your family and the expectations of high society that is required of being a ‘Moran’ which is something you’ve never wanted in your life and you’re not going to start wanting now. You want to be able to shed the shackles of pressure that were put on you from boarding school, from being a proper little English lad. You want to go where nobody will recognize you -- and perhaps that is best, because you did leave a scandal in your wake.</p><p>Freedom is what brought you here. The knowledge that you can get away with just about anything here, as you pull your handkerchief up over your nose and pull your hat over your face and crash your shoulder into the door of the bank and shout.</p><p>“I want all the money in the bag,” and you prove it, though the robbery is a little pedestrian and the girl is crying which is quite frankly exhausting but you need a bit of cash to get by before you go to the next town. It’s not like you’re going to hurt anyone, mostly.</p><p>It’s still boring, but it’s a lot less boring than England.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This has been itching in my brain for a while now, since during quarantine I've basically revisited all of my old fandoms. I've already planned quite a bit more out, so I should update it soon. Comments appreciated and loved, as it's been a while since I've written much properly at all. BBC Sherlock taken with an extreme grain of salt, and I doubt we're going to find the rest of the characters here, but I am still going to steal Andrew Scott's depiction of Moriarty because I have a super soft spot for it. Thanks for reading.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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